


The edge of the bridge

by Sealie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A fic for Susn, who wanted h/c fic where Carson was competent, Sheppard was the victim, and Rodney to be Rodney. By request this is heavy on the medical details and it’s linear.</p><p> </p><p>LKY looked over it first when it was a brand new baby fic and beat it into submission (it squealed), bethgreen gave me edits and constructive and wonderfully helpful medical advice (NO! You don’t want John to develop hyperaemia) and then tovalentin went over it with the finest of tooth combs.</p><p>Thank you.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The edge of the bridge

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for Susn, who wanted h/c fic where Carson was competent, Sheppard was the victim, and Rodney to be Rodney. By request this is heavy on the medical details and it’s linear.
> 
>  
> 
> LKY looked over it first when it was a brand new baby fic and beat it into submission (it squealed), bethgreen gave me edits and constructive and wonderfully helpful medical advice (NO! You don’t want John to develop hyperaemia) and then tovalentin went over it with the finest of tooth combs.
> 
> Thank you.

**The edge of the bridge**   
By sealie

The edge of the bridge’s wooden slats cut into his belly. Teeth gritted, Rodney gripped the collar of Sheppard’s tac vest as the man dangled, at arm’s length, above the chasm.

It should have been a simple little traverse across a wooden bridge on their way back to the Stargate.

 _And then a rock slide, or more accurately rock sprinkle, from above. But one flying rock had tapped Sheppard precisely on his temple and he stumbled -- one step, -- two steps -- and fell against the single meagre line of rope that acted as a handrail._

 _Then he had tottered that final step backwards to slip between rope and edge._

 _Rodney lunged. His fingers had just brushed the edge of coarse fabric. For a heartbeat they weren’t connected, and Rodney flung himself further forward. As he belly flopped on the bridge deck the air whooshed from his lungs, but he had caught Sheppard as he slithered over the edge._

 _Fingers scrabbling, Rodney teetered, weight unbalanced. He had flung-out arm, snagged a rope suspender and stopped his forward slide._

Sheppard was now a dead weight -- a gentle, swinging pendulum. The bones and tendons and ligaments were slowly separating in Rodney’s shoulder. Sheppard’s head lolled, and a glistening scarlet line slowly filled the grooves of his ear.

There was no solution. The physics were solid. He couldn’t lift a dead weight. He had no leverage lying on his belly.

“R -- ny?” Sheppard stuttered, shifting.

Shivers of pain laced along Rodney’s nerves from fingers to neck.

“Stay still. Don’t move,” Rodney grated. The pain was unravelling him. “Focus past it. Focus past it.”

“Rodney?” Sheppard whispered.

“Stop moving. Oh, god. Oh, god.” Rodney was reduced to whimpering. A hundred and sixty-five pounds of weight were slowly ripping him in half. He slowly, millimetre by millimetre, slipped further over the edge.

Sheppard twisted, trying to reach his hand.

“No, fuck. Don’t. Oh…. Hurts.” There was something horrible happening deep inside his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

“Rodney,” Sheppard said quietly. “Let me go.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Rodney, we’re both going to fall,” Sheppard said urgently.

“If you keep wriggling like a stupid fish on a line, we will.”

“Rodney, let me go.” He craned his head and smiled. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay! Oh, god. You fucking suicidal idiot. I’m going to set Heightmeyer on you.” He closed his eyes against Sheppard’s calm expression.

“Rodney!”

He tried to blot it all out. To just keep his cramping grip on Sheppard’s tac vest as something tore inside his shoulder.

A vibration, four staccato beats in the bar, joggled him, and he whimpered anew. The beat stopped and a bass drum bounced him into white pain. A lighter snare drum settled at his side, an agonising counterpoint.

The weight was lifted away.

“I’ve got him, McKay,” Ronon rumbled.

Then Teyla said, “And I have you, Rodney.”

Wraith-born strength pulled him to his feet, and he put heart and soul into the wail as he moved. White fire churned from fingertips to, strangely, the back of his ear. Teyla’s arm under his other arm kept him upright.

“Rodney. Rodney! You will be in considerably less pain if we reseat your shoulder. Ronon.”

A dark figure loomed beyond the black spots marring his vision. “Get away from me, you big oaf.”

Small fingers dug into his armpit and everything went white.

~*~

“Rodney?” Soft cat paws patted his cheeks. “Rodney?”

McKay opened his eyes, but the expected cat’s eyes were soft hazel. Cold fingers gripped his chin and waggled his head.

“Hey, there you are.” Sheppard grinned.

“Get off!” McKay sat up and grabbed at his shoulder as pain woke anew. “Ow! OW!”

Ronon crouched on one side of him, Teyla on the other. Hemmed only by the bridge ropes, it was a horribly precarious position.

Teyla was already drawing a field dressing from her hip pocket, rolling out the long bandage. She looped it around his torso and, with a swish, bound the limb firmly against his chest, wrist snug against his heart.

“That will help,” she said resolutely.

And at that point Sheppard was spectacularly and messily sick on Rodney’s lap.

Rodney’s wail could have split glass. Sheppard reeled back, and Ronon snatched him from the bridge’s edge. Hanging over his arm, Sheppard retched and cast vomit into the abyss. He flopped, boneless, only held up by Ronon’s grip.

“John?” Her hands full, Teyla could only ask.

“Fuck, no.” Sheppard feebly brought a hand up to the bloody side of his head. “Lights. Fuck, yellow rainbows.”

“I’ve got puke on me!”

“And I’ve got a concussion.” He retched up a mouthful of stringy bile.

“Looks like it,” Ronon said simply. Leonine, he stood, grabbing Sheppard’s wrist and slinging it over his shoulder. “Doc will know what to do.”

Sheppard hung like a curtain, but found his feet and the strength to stand. He swore dully and clamped a hand over his eyes.

“Teyla.” Ronon jerked his head at the cliff top where the bridge lines were tethered.

“I agree.”

Rodney whimpered as she manhandled him upright.

“Lean on me, Dr. McKay. I can hold your weight.”

It should have been embarrassing, but the pain was excruciating, so he allowed a tiny, contained woman to help him along the swaying bridge. Sheppard took one step and then another, through pure force of will.

Sheppard slumped two steps on, slipping to the wooden planks in an unconscious slither. Ronon, as deftly as a dancer, swooped down with the line of his fall and scooped him up.

“Colonel!” Rodney blurted.

“I’ve got him.” Ronon hefted the lanky man in his arms.

Rodney could see the sweep of his dark hair over Ronon’s shoulder. The bridge rocked as Ronon picked up the pace. Teyla matched the sinusoidal wave, using its motion to better traverse the bridge. By the time that they had reached the safety of the cliff edge, Ronon was halfway up the path leading from the bridge. At the pinnacle, the Stargate stood proud.

“Pain. Hee!” Rodney breathed hard through his teeth, as he stumbled at her side. “Oh, it fucking hurts! You…”

Ahead of them, the Stargate whooshed.

They reached the rise. Sheppard lay curled on his side in the shadow of the DHD.

“Teyla.” Ronon crouched down and gathered Sheppard to his breast. “Use your IDC.”

“Atlantis, this is Teyla Emmagan. We are coming through and we request a medical team in the gate room.”

~*~

The shock of the event horizon washing over John was like cold shower water. Waking during the transition was an altogether new experience. The swoop and yaw of their transition between gates was a thousand times worse than a tiny yacht on high seas. On the other side, he unceremoniously threw up on the embarkation platform.

“Oh, geez.” He was on his hands and knees. Sensation concentrated on touch as he kept his eyes firmly closed. A large, warm hand rested on the small of his back. He scuttled away, one eye half opening, crawling. He thought that he saw the edge of the platform, and he made a beeline for it and the darkened doorway beyond. Voices clamouring together discordantly reigned overhead. He caught the top of a set of steps, and let himself slither down.

“Colonel Sheppard.” Something touched him; he caught it, twisted it with a snap and it stopped interfering. The floor under his cheek was cool. It would be easier to stay. The floor panel thrummed contentedly. He stroked the tile and let himself seep into the floor. He was almost ensnared, and then he remembered: the need to get to the doorway. To get to –- safety. He couldn’t figure out where his knees were. The lights were impossibly heavy against the back of his neck, forcing his mind to spread over the floor. There was danger. People were touching him.

~*~

“Bugger!” Carson swore as the force field snapped him back, jarring his now broken wrist. Colonel Sheppard’s defensive reflexes, even when reeling and half conscious, were phenomenal. And now the colonel was neatly protected by a shimmering dome as he curled on the floor. The medic who had worked with Carson to corral the stumbling colonel stood open-mouthed, his fine black hair standing on end at the residual shock.

“What?” Rodney staggered down the steps and collapsed ungainly on his knees by Sheppard. One wing clipped, he reached out to just impinge with the force field. Lightning like Jack Frost’s paintings strobed beneath his fingertips.

“Get it down, Rodney. I need to check John now!” Bright, glossy blood stained the side of the colonel’s head, masking who knew what damage.

“Huh,” Rodney said, voice interested. “It stands to reason when you think about it. The Ancients were at war. I always thought that the gate room was curiously open. There must be these protective fields, stationed like bulwarks throughout the embarkation hall.”

“Fascinating. How’s about getting it down?” Carson said through gritted teeth.

Rodney glanced up to the control room on the overhead balcony and called, “Campbell, security protocols, probably linked to the shield as a secondary backup.”

“On it,” the sergeant yelled, worried.

“Emitter, emitter,” Rodney muttered, glancing at the ceiling. “No, floor.” He glanced around, mapping the ochre patterns.

“There’s nothing here, Dr. McKay,” Campbell called.

“Idiot,” Rodney said disparagingly.

Frustrated, Carson slapped the shield. “John, son. Think this damn thing off so I can help you.”

With what looked like a sigh, John curled tighter.

Carson turned on his heel and sought out Teyla. “Teyla luv, can you tell me what happened to the colonel?”

“He sustained a blow to the head.” She tapped her temple smartly. “It bled freely but he spoke clearly and we thought that he had only cut the skin. He was helping with Rodney. But then the colonel vomited and said that he could see a yellow rainbow. He had trouble standing, and when he stood he passed out.”

“I need details. What hit John? How hard was he hit? Timeline between the hit and the colonel showing periods of reduced consciousness? Any other injuries?”

Rodney’s attention jerked towards him like a laser sight. “One rock approximately five centimetres in diameter hit the left side of his head. I don’t know its mass. It was moving at terminal velocity -- 9.791 meters per second on M9V-412. Loss of consciousness was immediate. He was unconscious for approximately three minutes, then confused for about thirty seconds before Teyla and Ronon rescued us--” Rodney stuttered to a halt in his deadpan recitation and looked to Teyla.

“When we reset Rodney’s shoulder, he fainted momentarily. Between rescuing both the colonel and Rodney from the abyss, there was perhaps five minutes?” She raised an eyebrow at Ronon, requesting corroboration.

“‘Bout that, before he started puking and started fainting all over the place,” Ronon confirmed.

Damn, that did not sound good; he needed to get the force field down and examine his patient. Andaman, his head nurse, tapped her ear piece, no doubt requesting additional aid. She nodded at his gaze and mouthed, “Getting Dr. Ciembroniewicz to go to the OR. Dr. Pega is on his way here.”

Carson approved.

“Ronon.” Rodney clicked his fingers together and then pointed at the floor. “Peel up that tile.”

The runner responded by unholstering his blaster. The power cell whined as he spun the weapon. Energy arched from weapon to floor and spread, ricocheting through the supportive framework.

“No! Don’t do that, you idiot.” Rodney scrabbled back out of range, bottom scraping over the platform.

“Jesus!” Shocked, one of the medics jumped.

“That’s not going to work. You’ve probably locked the whole system down!” Rodney remonstrated even as he struggled to his knees and stood. Muttering, he stumbled to the stairs leading to the operation’s room.

Bringing his nose as close to the force shield as was humanly possible without touching it, Carson squinted at his patient. John was pale, and even through the blurring of the shield Carson could see sweat marring his brow. Shock? But that was speculation; it could be something as simple as a post-mission adrenaline crash. His patient’s eyes were closed, but through the coruscating force shield he saw John lick his lips.

“Carson?” His colleague, Dr. Claudio Pega, crouched at his side. “What’s the story? What happened to your wrist?”

“Head injury.” Carson scowled. “Rodney? Hurry up!”

“Working!”

“Work faster.” The diagnosis of brain injury was a given, but its severity was unknown. He needed to get through the damn force shield. “Rodney!”

“Not helping. Yes!” The force shield lit up at Rodney’s exultation.

Carson inhaled, freezing, but the dome remained solid. Bugger, he thought. Overhead, Rodney castigated the Ancients’ ancestors for having relationships with goats. John passed out -- Carson saw it, saw consciousness ebb, colour drain and muscles sag. All bad signs.

“Bastard!” Carson slammed his fist down on the force field. “Switch the fuck off, now!”

“Carson,” Elizabeth remonstrated, but fell silent as the shield fractured away like shattering glass.

“Yes!” Carson reached for his patient. He got his good hand on John’s neck in the space of a heartbeat, checking his airway and breathing in one instance. That his circulation was acceptable was evident from the blood streaming across his face. “Collar and board, asap, people.”

“Excuse me, Carson,” Dr. Pega said, and Carson’s well-trained team moved into position as he fell back, effectively hindered by a newly broken wrist that was swelling to hard-fatness even as he watched. It was going to hurt like a bitch when the adrenalin wore off.

John’s c-spine was secured and he was flipped onto his back. Dr. Pega shone a light in his eyes, and he groaned miserably. Carson upgraded his GSC to eight: still indicative of severe brain injury.

“Left pupil’s dilated with respect to his right pupil. Sluggishly reactive to light,” Pega reported in a monotone.

 _Bastard._

~*~

 **The edge of the bridge - part two**

 

“Colonel Sheppard, we’re going to be lifting you.”

He protested as hands writhed over him, prodding, prying and pushing.

“I know, son. I know.”

His eyelid was peeled back again and the yellow rainbow threatened to engulf him.

“Fuck --ff.” That voice sounded a little like his own, but he didn’t swear without provocation. He reached for the floor, trying to find a stable hold as the city swooped on the stormy ocean. He caught something and pulled it into the palm of his hand. It was soft.

“Get a dressing on that wound. You don’t have to make it pretty; we can do that later. I want a skull series asap. We’re going straight to the imaging suite.”

It was soft, he wanted to pull it to his chin and curl around it, but too many hands were dabbling at him. He wanted soft.

“On three. One, two, three.”

Bile rose and stuck in his throat. He tried to twist onto his side. A clunk and a click and he seemed to float on air. Vomit rose.

“Shit, get him on his side.”

“Where’s the suction unit?”

Better out than in, his mother had always said. Was she here? The smell was sour and cut the back of his throat. He added to the puddle at the side pushing up against his cheek.

There was a distant moaning. He clamped his teeth and concentrated on breathing through his nose, as sharp and as fast as he could. Rubbery tasting fingers mauled at his lips, and his mouth was forced open. A hissing, sucking whistle filled his ears.

“John, stop biting on the suction tube.”

He opened his eyes and a whole universe of star systems swooped by and he decided to visit them all at once.

~*~

Mentally, Carson swore as John vomited and then passed out again. As they rushed down the corridor, the clickity-clack of the wheel was like nails dragging down his spine. Pega had his stethoscope out, trying to listen to John’s lungs to determine if he had aspirated vomit even as they ran. Whatever the outcome of the imaging, Carson knew that he wasn’t going to be performing surgery; he needed two hands to operate.

Swooping around a corner, they entered the cubbyhole within the infirmary where they had installed the Ancients’ superlative body scanner. Better than the matrix screens that they could cart to a patient, this device showed the innards of a patient at a resolution that doctors on earth could only dream about.

His wonderfully professional staff moved in concert, lifting Sheppard onto the contoured couch situating him on his back. Already initialised, the main screen started relaying specs. Heart rate was up and resps. down. The Ancient-equivalent EEG showed delta waves.

“Site it over his head. People, move.” Carson clicked his fingers.

The technician drew the scanner consol directly over the crown of John’s head, a red laser light line showing the start of the imaging path. Silently, the consol began to move, and a slice of images began to resolve on the operational screen. Rapidly another slice formed, and another, growing to resolve into a three-dimensional representation of John’s skull. The secondary analytical monitor bleeped, indicating that it was ready with a resolved image of the output so far. A mental flick of a button and Carson flipped the image, hunting for any evidence of skull fracture or depression.

“Shit.”

As clear as day, a pinpoint fracture, with an arrow of a depression right on his left temple.

He had known that it was going to be there before he saw it, because Sheppard’s condition had plummeted so quickly. He had just had to find its location. Another mental tap on the screen and the image of the skull dissolved, showing the damaged tissue beneath. The middle meningeal artery was compromised, leaking blood into the concussed tissue around it and striping the dura from the inside of the skull. A lentiform bleed was forming. Carson flashed a quick look at the operational monitor tracking the progression of the scanner. It was down past the thoracic vertebrae. Quick as falling on ice, Carson checked the integrity of John’s spinal column and vertebrae on his screen. No red points equalled no damage.

“Pega,” he called, but Pega was there, peering over his shoulder at the monitor. “Extradural haemorrhage. You’re going to have to perform the surgery.” He held up his wrist, supported by his other hand.

Pega’s thin face turned positively pointy as he studied the scanner. He reached over, without the ATA gene needing to physically use the control panel, and increased magnification over the temporal area.

“Yes, got it,” he said intently. “Andaman, Connell, you’re with me. I want Radmenthty as anaesthesiologist. Andaman, wake up Ciembroniewicz; I want him to scrub in.”

“He’s on his way, Dr. Pega,” Andaman said. “I had a feeling and called him when you were in Control.”

“Excellent.”

Carson stepped back, literally and figuratively. This was his colleague’s show now, and much as he hated it, he had been benched.

“Okay, c-spine is intact,” Pega reported. “Prep the colonel for surgery. We’re going to be performing a craniotomy. Faster, people.”

John was plucked from the imaging couch and back onto the gurney. Andaman took one side and Connell the other and began to draw it away, Pega at their heels and Carson in pursuit.

Ciembroniewicz was already waiting for them in the pre-op suite, gowned, robed and scrubbed hands held high, ready for surgical gloves. Only the slash of his white eyebrows and ice-blue eyes were visible. “What’s the story?”

“Epidural haematoma situated under the left temporal bone and depressed skull fracture, one centimetre equilateral triangle,” Pega said, staccato.

“Right, I’ll tell Radmenthty, he’s the operating room.” Clean, Ciembroniewicz didn’t interact with the patient, but retreated, stepping backwards to pass through the scintillating force shield behind him into their main operating theatre.

While Ciembroniewicz was being briefed John had been released from the back brace. Andaman took a pair of scissors and slit a long line up through the colonel’s t-shirt, revealing the planes of his chest. Monitoring pads came next, situated over his chest, the three leads reporting his cardiac output. His pulse was slowing. The same scissors decimated his trousers and sliced through his boxer shorts. Carson looked along the long length of his body, but there was no evidence of contusions or lacerations. Sheppard had not fallen when he had been coshed on the head. The O2 sat monitor bleeped urgently, relaying a dropping level of blood oxygenation.

Connell wiped Sheppard’s penis down with betatine and inserted the foley catheter. Output was immediate, yellow urine dripping along the tube. Pega already had an I.V. port set up in the back of John’s hand. He dispensed medication himself, drawing a small dose into a syringe from a larger vial of Versed.

“Carson, you’re not helping,” Pega said as he inserted the syringe in the port and injected the contents. He set that syringe down and picked up a second, prepared one. “Go sort out that wrist. McKay had a sling on and was covered in puke and he wasn’t complaining. You might want to check on him.”

Pega was absolutely correct. He was only in the way. He didn’t have to like it, but it was true. He turned his back and stalked out of pre-op as his colleague intubated the colonel.

“Andaman,” he heard Pega instruct, “hang an I.V. of hypertonic saline. Connell, shave Colonel Sheppard’s head.”

~*~

McKay hated being in the infirmary. If you had half a brain you had to hate being in the infirmary. It was undignified and degrading. Flesh was not meant to be uncovered. He sat on the gurney stripped from the waist down, with a blanket clutched over his lap. Teyla had –- thankfully –- gone to his room to get some laundered boxer shorts.

“Rodney.” Carson interrupted his train of thought. “Tell me what happened to your shoulder?”

“Carson! Why aren’t you with Sheppard?”

“I can’t operate.” Carson held his wrist in the palm of his other hand.

“Operate!” Rodney shrieked. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Epidural haematoma. They have to repair a torn artery to prevent further bleeding in his brain.”

“What?” McKay said, horrified. “Bleeding in his brain?”

“Pega’s operating. He’s very competent. Now, Rodney, your arm.” Carson drew his attention back to the sling and the agonising pain wracking his body.

“I dislocated it,” Rodney said striving and failing for succinctness. “I held Sheppard over an abyss! An abyss. I heard it grate and fuck, it hurt!”

“Shush, shush,” Carson soothed.

“I put it back in,” Ronon rumbled from his seat at the side of Rodney’s bed.

“So it was pulled out of joint?” Carson checked, assessing the bandages wrapped around Rodney’s torso.

“Yanked! By 160 odd pounds of skinny-assed colonel.”

“Okay, we’re going to take some pictures of your shoulder, check to see it’s in place properly and if you’ve torn anything.”

“Torn!” McKay didn’t like the sound of that.

“You going to get your wrist looked at?” Ronon asked.

“Aye.” Carson looked at it sadly. The next couple of weeks were going to be a bit of a bugger.

“What does torn mean? Am I going to have to have surgery?”

“Well, it depends,” Carson began.

~*~

 

They made a right pair, Carson thought, studying Rodney. Both in slings, cack-handed, unable to help. Carson was scheduled for surgery any minute.

“You’ve got him on a ventilator,” Rodney said. He knew these things now, terminology, outcomes, statistics. Too much practice.

Colonel Sheppard was on ICU-level support; he had entered surgery with a GSC of eight. And Carson’s last assessment had only just upgraded him to that eight, indicating a degree of unconsciousness bordering on coma. Ventilated, sedated, head elevated, monitored up the watoozi, his assigned nurse stood at the stand at the end of his bed, updating the large A3 spreadsheet of the day’s chronological information. Andaman’s writing was neat. Habitually, she reached out and patted her patient’s blanket-covered foot.

“Dr. B..” she nodded, and wrote down Colonel Sheppard’s pulse ox.

“Ventilator?” Rodney prodded. “And did you really need to shave his head?”

By ‘you’ Rodney meant the medical profession at large. The blame was well spread –- everybody was guilty.

Rodney rocked from foot to foot. Sheppard’s entire head was snugly rolled up in white bandages.

“We didn’t shave his entire head.”

“Just a _goodly_ portion.” Rodney made a mocking speech mark with his fingers.

“It’ll grow back,” Carson muttered, unrepentant. He shuffled sideways and glanced down the column of figures, eyes unerringly going to the reading for intracranial pressure.

“I can’t believe you stuck a tube in his head!” Rodney bent at the waist and squinted at the offending tube emerging from the bandages. Nose practically brushing the dressings around John’s head, Rodney huffed angrily. Pega had set a secondary burr hole in addition to the craniotomy to insert an intracranial ventricular catheter. The choice of using an intracranial monitor over a subarachnoid bolt or an epidural monitor to monitor pressure in the brain was up to the surgeon in charge. Carson glared at the sausage-fat fingers poking out of his temporary splint.

“Rodney,” he chastised. “Give him some air.”

“He’s on a ventilator.” Rodney pointed at the endotracheal tube emerging from Sheppard’s mouth. “He’s on a regulated mix.”

“Don’t be facetious, Rodney. You know that John would not be comfortable with you hanging over him like that! Sit down.” Carson nodded at the chair set beside the ICU bed.

Rodney sat with a tired thump. “How long are you keeping him sedated?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on his friend’s still face.

“Carson,” Pega said abruptly, seemingly teleporting to their sides. “Radmenthty’s ready for you now. You should be in pre-op, rather than practicing medicine.”

Carson winced as his colleague looked pointedly at Colonel Sheppard’s specs. Dr. Claudio Pega was listed in bold lettering in the top right hand corner as physician in charge.

“I’ll be off then,” Carson returned. “Your patient.”

“Indeed,” Pega said pithily.

~*~

“When are you going to wake him up?” McKay asked.

“For the love of god, Rodney, go to bed.” Carson rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.

“Feeling tired?” McKay said snidely.

“Unsurprisingly, yes,” Carson snapped back.

“Gentlemen,” Pega interrupted. “I’ll kindly ask you to leave the ICU bay. Go to your rooms and get your prescribed rest. Carson, you have sick leave, remember to keep that arm elevated.”

Carson had an impressive cast that ran from the tip of his fingers, immobilised his thumb, and didn’t stop until after his elbow.

McKay lifted his chin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Pega met his stare. “Colonel Sheppard will not be regaining consciousness until tomorrow evening at the earliest, and then only if I reduce his sedation. You are doing yourself and your team member no favours by playing Florence Nightingale. Visiting hours are over.”

“Rodney?” Carson touched his elbow. “Best leave. You and I both need a good night’s sleep. We’ll be better able to help John if we’re a little healed when he wakes up.”

His shoulder hurt like the dickens deep inside. At least he hadn’t had to endure surgery: the ligaments were sprained and stretched, but not torn. Carson, on the other hand, was as white as a sheet, with bags as big as attaché cases under his eyes.

“Come on, Rodney. I can’t leave until you can. I can’t leave you with Dr. Pega, he’ll eat you alive.”

Rodney scowled at Carson’s emotional blackmail and cast a glance over his shoulder at the turbaned colonel, lifeless as a wax manikin. It was disturbing, as creepy as a Dr. Who Auton. Rodney could almost imagine him sitting up, lumbering off the bed, and arms outstretched, wreaking havoc.

“He will not wake up,” Pega continued. “His vitals are good. I don’t expect any problems at this time.”

Carson carefully rocked to one side and glanced at the sheet of statistics on the podium at the end of Sheppard’s bed. McKay watched hawk-like; Carson couldn’t play poker to save his life. Carson’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t appear unduly concerned. His finger tapped at one data point.

“Come on, Rodney. Time to go.” He smiled.

“Carson.” Pega held up a blister pack of ibuprofen. “If you want to get any sleep tonight, you’ll need some.”

“Do I get any?” Rodney held his hand out.

With flair, Pega twisted his fingers, and like a splay of cards one blister pack became two. “Two tablets, no more than eight in a day.”

“I know.” Rodney snatched.

Teyla was sitting patiently, cross-legged on the floor outside the infirmary. Unfurling with grace and precision, she stood. “Is John awake?”

“No, love. Dr. Pega has him sedated. I wouldn’t really expect him to start reducing sedation until at least forty-eight hours.”

“He threw us out,” Rodney said mulishly. Ha! He bet Pega wouldn’t be able to break Teyla’s mien of placid resolve. He jerked his chin at the door.

“Dr. Pega would not mind if I sat with John for a short period of time, would he?”

Carson glanced back into the infirmary. “I’m sure he’ll have several objections. But five minutes won’t do any harm.”

Teyla nodded serenely. “Thank you.”

Both men paused a moment to watch her stride into the infirmary, head held high, chin raised and back straight.

“Do you think she’ll stay all night?” Rodney mused.

“Teyla? No. Just a couple of hours, I guess. Seriously, John will not be waking tonight.” He gestured down the corridor. “Best keep your strength up for when he’ll be bored and needing entertainment.”

~*~

 **The edge of the bridge - part three**

Carson had had a bad night’s sleep. The bones in his wrist had seemed to grate even with the joy of self-medication. The scaphoid bone had been snapped neatly in two, necessitating a pin to secure the two pieces. Carson knew all the worst case scenarios and was deliberately not dwelling on them.

Andaman nodded at him as he slipped into ICU, taking note of his civvies, and letting him head to John’s bed unmolested.

As he expected, Teyla sat at the side of his bed, meditating. Quiet and serene, she was almost unnoticeable, and John’s assigned nurse worked around her. Surprisingly, there was no sign of Rodney.

Unerringly, Carson was drawn to the chart at the end of John’s bed.

As Carson drew a finger down the neat column of the latest figures relating his patient’s condition Teyla opened her eyes.

“Carson.” Her tone was completely neutral, but he knew the question.

There was nothing surprising on John’s chart which was neither good nor bad only as it was. The trick was to keep the pressure in his brain within acceptable parameters and avoid hyperaemia. The beauty was that on Atlantis they had mechanisms outside terrestrial science to help. Evidence of superlative level of care was apparent on every stage, and Carson expected no less. Perhaps he would discuss adding the calcium channel blocker nimodipine to the mix.

“Carson?” Teyla said again.

“Sorry, love. John’s doing fine.” He found a smile.

Soundly trapped in a barbiturate coma -- 1mg/kg/hr -– in order to decrease intracranial pressure, John’s heart rate was low and his EEG was throwing out delta waves. Blood pressure was a little higher than Carson liked. Pulse ox was nominal. His patient was reduced to numbers. Deliberately, Carson looked at John, lax and sleeping, wrapped head and slightly elevated. His colour was poor.

“Well within expected parameters,” Teyla echoed, interrupting his thoughts.

“The colonel inflicts far too much television on you.”

Teyla’s smile was plastic.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love, miles away.” He gestured her away from the bed, hating to discuss a patient’s prognosis with their family over their head when they were unconscious. Teyla followed, the tension in her frame increasing visibly.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Carson spoke, “Honestly, John is ill. Brain surgery is serious. But we caught the problem almost immediately, and the wonderful equipment that we have here on Atlantis let us identify where exactly the bleed in his head was. There are a whole host of complications to any surgery, especially the type of surgery which John has just had, and we’re watching like hawks for them.”

“Rodney would ask for percentages.”

“Aye, and then call voodoo. Humans aren’t numbers, despite how much we want them to be sometimes.” Aye, right.

The most important question came. “When will John awaken?”

Carson glanced unconsciously at the chart, remembering the levels of Pentobarbital in his system. Pega had chosen to keep him sedated.

“Not today, nor likely tomorrow. ‘Tis the waiting game now. And it’s time for you to get some rest. My people are looking after him.”

~*~

“Where is he!” McKay demanded, pointing at the empty space where Sheppard’s bed should be.

“Sshhushh.” The nurse with spiral-curls that followed a perfect mathematical transition helix -- k = r/r2+c2 (he never remembered her name, though), raised a finger to her lips. “There are other patients, Dr. McKay.”

McKay glanced at the unfamiliar figure lying on the hospital bed and dismissed her. “Where’s Sheppard?”

“Colonel Sheppard is in the analysing suite. Some scans to see how he’s healing.”

“Hmmm.”

“And how is your shoulder, Dr. McKay?”

“It hurts, what do you expect?” he snapped back. “Where’s Carson?”

“Dr. Beckett is off duty. His broken wrist precludes being on duty.”

“Precludes, eh?” McKay began, but a gaggle of staff were wheeling the colonel back into the ward. He was festooned with equipment; a small respirator lying on his blanket-covered legs was chugging away. They pushed the colonel’s bed neatly into the space between EEG and EEC, hooking him up to the bigger vent beside his bed, moving the smaller unit off the wheeled bed.

“I thought that you were making him wake up? Bringing him out of sedation.”

The nurse swallowed, looking a step away from ringing her hands. Sheppard was an infirmary favourite. In the year-plus that they had been on Atlantis, the expedition had developed doctor/patient relationships that were much closer than those Rodney was familiar with.

“What’s happening?” McKay tapped his ear piece. “Carson! Carson? I’ve got a problem in the infirmary with Colonel Sheppard.”

 _“Bloody hell, tell anyone who’s in your vicinity. You hear me? Don’t wait for me. Get a doctor, nurse. I’ll be there asap.”_ The comm. clicked off.

“No,” McKay said into silence. With a growl he turned on Dr. Pega, who was consulting the chart at the foot of the colonel’s bed. “What is the matter with Colonel Sheppard?”

“I...” Pega’s aquiline face twisted, like he had been sucking a lemon. Rodney flinched.

McKay tapped his ear comm. again. “Teyla, I need you and Ronon in the infirmary. There’s something wrong with Sheppard.”

He glanced at the figure on the bed. It didn’t –- he flinched at the thought –- _feel_ like the colonel. A motionless figure, hooked up and wired, could only appear diminished, which was completely wrong for the colonel.

“What’s happening?” Huffing and puffing, Carson stomped into the ICU unit.

“There’s something wrong with Sheppard.” McKay pointed at him, wires and bandages.

“Claudio, you were reducing the sedation?” As he spoke, Carson crossed to the chart podium.

Rodney hovered at his shoulder. “Carson?” he tried.

“Shush, I’m reading.” In the space of a few days the colonel had generated reams of paperwork. Sheets flicked back and forth under Carson’s fingers. He glanced up at the monitors to the left and right, focussing on the one which Rodney knew was the electroencephalogram. Carson was interested the electrical impulses within the brain. The output showed a low frequency line.

“Coma,” McKay interpreted instantly. “You’ve stopped sedating him yesterday and he’s not waking up. He’s in a coma.”

“We have Colonel Sheppard’s latest scans.” Pega angled his laptop so Carson could see it.

Carson leaned over, absently brushing at his bottom lip, eyes riveted on the screen. Without a word Pega scrolled to the next image. Rodney could only make out blurry slices coloured in red, white, blue and green.

“Any sign of Colonel Sheppard bucking the vent?” Carson asked.

Pega shook his head.

Carson pursed his lips and Rodney felt his guts turn to ice water.

“Carson!” Rodney demanded.

“Rodney, can you go outside, please. Teyla and Ronon are probably on their way here, can you tell them that we need a minute.”

“No.” McKay crossed his arms, or more accurately stuffed his good hand in his sling. “I want to know what’s happening.”

“Out!” Carson ordered. “We need that minute and you’re going to give it to us. I’m no telling you what I think without all the evidence. Go intercept your team, now!”

Truculently, McKay went.

Ronon was running down the corridor like a freight train, dreadlocks flying behind him and Teyla in hot pursuit. On seeing him, both screeched to a stop. Teyla neatly sidestepped Ronon to avoid hitting him. She still held a set of Bantos rods; evidently they had been practicing.

“What is happening, Rodney?” Teyla asked.

“I think the colonel is dying.”

~*~

 **The edge of the bridge - part four**

By the time that Carson stepped out of the infirmary into the corridor the group had grown to six. All rose to their feet for the prognosis. Teyla, Ronon and Rodney stepped to the front of the pack. Lorne was a pace apart, standing close to the wall, separate and distinct.

“Colonel Sheppard is in a coma,” Carson announced without pause or drama. Elizabeth gasped; at her side Radek fluttered, half-reaching to comfort her.

“What did you do to him?” Rodney demanded at the top of his voice.

“Rodney,” Teyla chastised, raising a hand, begging for silence. “Carson, please, tell us what is happening?”

“It’s not unexpected, but it’s not ideal. The brain responds in funny ways to injury. Medically, he’s doing well --”

“Apart from the coma,” Rodney interjected.

Carson’s tone was controlled and professional. “Actually, John has been in a medically induced coma since the surgery, to allow his brain to recover from the trauma. We expected that when we reduced the sedation his level of consciousness would increase to the point that he would no longer be medically comatose. Unfortunately, he's not progressed as quickly as we would have hoped. We’ve managed to keep the cerebral oedema within acceptable parameters and there’s evidence that both the torn vessel and resultant bruising is healing well.”

“Coma,” Rodney said again.

“Yes, Rodney, I’m well aware that the colonel is in a coma.” Carson rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Since Dr. Pega has also been reducing both sedation and neurological blocking agents, we’ve extubated the colonel and he’s breathing on his own.”

“That is a good sign, is it not?” Teyla asked.

Ronon grunted.

“Yes, that is a good sign. Comas generally don’t last more than a few days. Yes, it’s a setback, but it’s not insurmountable.”

“Famous last words,” Rodney muttered before he could stop himself.

~*~

“It’s a cliché because it’s used a lot. Yes, Rodney, please sit beside Colonel Sheppard and talk to him.”

~*~

“So a week.” McKay lifted his chin.

Carson met his glare, but dropped his eyes first. “Aye. But his brain stem is intact. There are no bilateral pontine lesions. There’s no evidence of abnormal posturing.”

“But.” McKay pointed at the evidence laid out on the bed before him. The hiss and wheeze of the inflatable mattress deflating and inflating beneath the colonel was loud throughout the infirmary. He didn’t actually look closely at the person on the bed.

“Aye,” Carson gritted. “But he’s healing. The MRI shows healing with minimal scarring. We’ve removed the intracranial ventricular catheter.”

McKay thought that that was a massive improvement. The bolt sticking out of his head had been pretty gross, but he regretted the lost opportunity to call the colonel ‘Frankenstein’ to his face.

“But no sign of consciousness.”

Carson closed his eyes. “And there’s no reason for the coma to persist. And if you use the word voodoo, I’m going to throw you out of my infirmary.”

“So why is he in a coma?” Rodney asked with a wobbling sound of hurt.

“Trauma, shock, pain, stress -– to escape.”

“Escape?”

“Bad choice of words, perhaps. Think of it as gathering strength, taking a holiday.”

McKay, finally, stared at his friend; he didn’t look like he was on vacation. Improved? The bandages surrounding his head were reduced and a tuft of spiky black hair poked though the top. Snapshot view, McKay took it all in: coarse chapped lips; sensors stuck to his forehead and temples; feeding tube taped against his cheek and sticking up his nose; a paleness and a stillness that did not suit the active colonel.

“There’s no reason for this?”

“There’s a bloody good medical reason,” Carson said precisely. “But there’s no reason for it to persist. The brain’s a funny thing.”

McKay clicked his fingers chidingly. “Again with the clichés. Other reasons for a coma? CB… CB….”

“His bloods are clear. There’s no sign of any bacteria, virus or nanite that would induce a prolonged state of unconsciousness.”

“But it’s persisting.” McKay drummed his fingers on the chart at the end of Sheppard’s bed, ruffling a pile of sheets.

“Aye, and I don’t know why,” Carson finally admitted.

“Okay, Ancient tech.” Rodney scanned the infirmary, there had to be something that could help.

“We have nae found any magical coma healing devices. Bone knitter, used that on his skull fracture.” Carson held up his own wrist, still casted but much reduced. “We’ve tried to increase his brain activity through physical stimulation.”

“What about mental stimulation?”

“We’ve been talking and Teyla’s been playing music, as you well know.”

“Well, I’ve heard Teyla’s taste in music. And his Ipod’s country music -- Johnny Cash croaking -- would put me right to sleep. Forget that -– it’s too linear. We need to engage that head full of air and flying and get him back. We could use a holographic environment interface.”

“What are you talking about?” Carson asked.

Integers, explanatory variables, response, a model and a final equation. A whirl. A solution and a plan. One stark image of growing gauntness and Rodney was out the door.

Hours later, caffeine poisoned and sleep-deprived, Rodney entered the ICU pushing a mockup of the Aurora’s holographic interface on a metal trolley. Radek scurried along in his wake, manhandling an unwieldy tower of cobbled together crystals.

“What in the name of Beelzebub is that?” Carson demanded, running out of this office at the end of the ICU ward to meet them.

“The virtual environment,” McKay explained, but Carson looked blank -– or blanker than usual.

“Can’t it be hosted in the Atlantis mainframe?” Carson leaned forward slightly to better peer at the mess of glowing crystals embedded in an Ancient memory stack. Radek hefted the tower higher in his arms.

“Because it’s not,” McKay said pedantically. ”It could be. But we were working on it separately. Hence the tower of crystals that would have Sheppard making inappropriate jokes if he was awake.”

“What sort of virtual reality have you created?”

“The virtual _environment_ ,” McKay said pointedly, “is dependent on the user’s imagination.”

“John’s not imagining much at the moment,” Carson pointed out.

Rodney blew out heavily, realising that there was a slight flaw in his plan. “So I’ll go in and create something.”

“Hang on. Time out.” Carson fumbled through a gauche version of the classic ‘T’. “You want to wire John up to a pile of experimental circuitry and go crawling around in his brain?”

“Essentially, yes, but not quite. The interface allows the conscious mind to enter an artificially created environment. We’ve created two settings, one based on -- Miko won the raffle -- Pirates of the Caribbean, and another blank room which you can, with sufficient imagination, create environments in.”

“No.” Carson stepped to the left putting himself between Sheppard and the machine. “I’m not sanctioning you using this _thing_ on John. I remember the reports on this type of kit after the Aurora fiasco; it reacts with the conscious mind. To conscious thought.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the EEG. “John’s unconscious.”

“This will stimulate his mind,” McKay protested, but Carson had his resolute face on.

Radek clucked. “It takes thought to enter into the environment. You said yourself, Rodney, it takes a deliberate effort to enter, otherwise we’d be popping in and out like jack-in-the-boxes.”

“Even if he was semi-conscious I wouldn’t let you do it,” Carson stuttered. “How long have you been working on this? There’s been no experimental studies presented in any of the weekly reporting lab sessions about this thingy. No. No. No.”

“Carson,” McKay chided, pushing the trolley a foot length closer, “we have to do something. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“No. We’re not there yet. A week isn’t unconscionable,” Carson continued in the face of McKay’s reasoning. “Your mockup of the holodeck is based on Ancient tech; go explore the database. Come back when you’ve done some research on how Ancients with brain injuries reacted.”

Carson was scrunching down like a British Bulldog, obdurately drawing down for battle.

“Dr. Beckett is right, Rodney.” Radek nudged his hip against the projector unit.

McKay flicked a glance at his crazy-haired colleague; now both Radek and Carson were disagreeing with trying to wake the colonel.

“Okay. Okay.” He tilted his head, thinking. ”We need to reconfigure the meshing interface so that it can integrate with low amplitude, low frequency electrical brainwaves.”

“And hit the database to explore existing reports on the effect of your _environment_ on its subjects,” Carson persisted.

“Fine.” Laboriously, McKay drew the trolley backwards.

~*~

Carson knew that it was hard to separate the patient from the friend -- sometimes it was needful, and other times it was absolutely paramount. And then conflictingly a doctor’s detachment could be overpowering. Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard was essentially hibernating: there hadn’t been the slightest evidence of conscious or unconscious movement -- not even a twitch. They hadn’t missed any deeper intake of breath or flutter of eyelashes. John had not been left alone since this had begun. No movement whatsoever equalled, to Carson McWhan Beckett, an uncomfortably bad sign.

Using his good hand, Carson gently enfolded John’s in his own, careful of I.V. port and O2 Sat monitor.

“I know you don’t like being touched, son. But sometimes it does help. Aye, I’ve seen you wincing when someone gets close. Being in the infirmary must be all levels of hell for you.”

Western medicine at its heart was invasive and hands-on.

“There’s a whole bunch of people waiting and praying for you to wake up,” Carson chuckled. “Pega’s top of that list. I think he’s afraid that Ronon’s going to disembowel him, despite that everything went perfectly well with your surgery.”

Carson looked at the pale, sleeping face, dark eyelashes resting on smooth cheeks.

“Why are you hiding? And how do we get you back? Rodney’s no telling me something. Something upset you before you hurt your head? Something that you don’t want to talk about?”

Rodney wouldn’t tell. Their friend was loud, painfully honest about his thoughts and occasionally objectionable, but said surprisingly little.

‘Rodney’s right, I think,’ Carson thought. ‘But in his normal Rodneyesque way it’s full of bang and clatter.’ And this time, even though Rodney had missed the bull’s-eye, he was within the target zone. That he had missed the bull’s-eye spoke of how upset the volatile man was over his best friend’s continuing unconsciousness.

“Rodney’s right, we need to get you thinking.” How could they stimulate the unconscious mind? Even in the infirmary it wasn’t super quiet; he had prescribed a judicious use of massage, and they had been playing John’s favourite music. Teyla had been beseeching the Ancestors while burning incense (he had put a stop to that rather quickly).

“Ancestors?” Carson mused, an impossible notion occurring. The thrum of Atlantis was always in the back of his mind. Since living in the city of the Ancients he had had the weirdest of dreams. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he had to consciously initiate the technology. But occasionally, once in a blue moon, the stroke of Atlantis worked without his thinking about it, particularly recently compared to when they first arrived. He was getting less fearful in his old age, and more adept. Now for Sheppard things happened just because he was Sheppard.

“Atlantis.” Carson scanned the ward. His favourite head nurse was working quietly at the observation desk updating files. Oh, she was watching and listening, but was only unconsciously registering the world around her. A shocked intake of breath would have her over in a trice, though.

‘Oh, bugger,’ Carson thought loudly and clearly, wondering how to do this. He didn’t think that he could just try to contact Atlantis and make her poke John somehow. He needed some kind of link.

“Scanner!” Inspiration.

“Dr. B.?” Becky called. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, love. Just thinking.” Having a broken wrist was a bit of a bugger; he set John’s hand down and fumbled in his pocket for his faithful medical scanner and sensor strip two-set. He could operate this in his sleep. An absent thought switched on the main unit. Gauchely, he tucked it between cast and fingers on his bad hand. The scanning strip he set right over John’s heart. Then, with great deliberation, he picked up John’s hand.

He closed his eyes, all the more conscious of the feel of John’s cool, lax fingers in his hand. There was a place deep inside that seemed to grow to a vast expanse when he consciously activated Ancient technology.

The goa’uld had healing technology. He wished that he had a device here. But then again, he didn’t have naquadah in his blood to enable him to activate the device, just proteins from an ATA gene sequence which never switched off. Deliberately, he made a conscious effort not to think on anything other than his goal. Try and stay within that activation zone and John might sense tech working on him and through him, stroking along his nerves in a visceral manner, to act on that echoing vastness in the back of his mind.

It was cold there. There was a little fillip of initiation -- a jolt in his gut. _John_?

“Holy cow.” Carson opened his eyes. “That was weird.”

Oh, this was getting a little too fey for Carson’s peace of mind, but there had been a presence, like mouth to skin, a scent, a taste of blood in his mouth. Girding himself, Carson closed his eyes. Trying to find that place, he structured the adenine and thymine dance of the ATA gene sequence. A helical stretch enfolding the ATA pattern of cytosine and guanine with adenine and thymine. Activate. Activate. Activate. Atlantis.

A thrum stroked along his senses, echoing with a familiar sense of someone standing too close.

“John?” he said and thought far too loudly.

“Dr. B?” Becky Andaman was at his side. “Are you all right?”

“Aye, just tired, I guess,” Carson said obediently, telling her what she wanted to hear. Unerringly, his eyes went to the EEG output, the four interlaced screens, showing: patient details; the image of a healing brain; daily log; and -- the important one -- the last five minutes of activity.

“Did the colonel wake?” she asked keenly.

A blip of theta jumped out from the continuous line of low delta waves.

“Bloody hell, it worked.”

~*~

“It was Rodney’s idea, actually,” Carson said to the group around the conference table.

Rodney preened happily.

“The problem was with Rodney’s approach --” Carson smiled a little at Rodney’s ever so predictable scowl, “-- that it was predicated to a conscious mind. A lot of the tech that we use requires that we consciously use it. But like driving a car, some tech we use now without thinking about it. But it kind of…”

“Is in the back of your mind?” Elizabeth offered.

“Aye. That works. And my scanner --” Carson held up his favourite toy -- “is designed to act on people, and definitely has better resolution if the patient is ATA enabled. I activated and kept activating it. Hitting the ‘on’ button, so to speak, hoping it would disturb Colonel Sheppard. And we got a hit. We registered an increase in brain activity.”

“Has John shown signs of waking up?” Teyla asked.

“We’ve seen evidence in the EEG log of more activity. A couple of more blips into the theta range.”

“Nothing concrete, though, no outward signs of consciousness,” Rodney interjected.

“Theta?” Elizabeth overrode the squabble before it could begin.

“It’s slow brain activity.” Carson turned and looked at her straight on.

“3.5 to 7.5 hertz,” Rodney interjected.

“It’s associated with the state between awake and asleep. It’s specifically relevant to subconscious activity,” Carson continued.

“So.” Elizabeth set her folded hands on the table. “How do we use this?”

“The doc goes back and tries again, until he wakes up.” Ronon leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his contribution.

“Yes, but we have a better idea.” Rodney stood and moved over to the display screen that dominated the conference room. “Remembering that Carson tried an unsanctioned experiment --”

“Rodney,” Carson chastised.

“Hmmm, so you tried it, but you wouldn’t let me try it.” Rodney executed a little bounce, up on his toes and down, pleased with the hit. “We do have the Aurora-derived technology which has allowed us to create two virtual environments, one blank and one Pirates of the Caribbean extravaganza, don’t ask. As Carson rightly pointed out, the Aurora environment requires conscious thought to enter. Now Radek and I have increased the sensitivity of the interface, allowing easier entry, and ultimately, exit. But we still need that ‘blip’ of consciousness. This is where Carson’s trick comes in.”

Stick figures resolved on the screen behind him. One with a scribble of messy hair was joined by a line to a rather rotund figure which in turn was linked to a square with the acronym AVE (Aurora Virtual Environment). To the left another stick figure, a bit bigger than the rest, was like a fly in a web of multiple lines.

“Carson raises Colonel Sheppard’s consciousness to the theta level, possibly even alpha zone, and I go in and grab him, or more accurately initiate the Pirates environment to show --”

“Can’t I do both?” Carson asked.

“Didn’t you tell me that it took a certain blankness of mind to make this work?” Rodney snapped, rising up on his toes. “You can’t activate the technology and imagine up the Pirates of the Caribbean, can you?”

“What are the risks?” Elizabeth asked, before Carson could speak.

“None that we’re aware of,” Carson said circumspectly. “Our analysis of the database reveals no evidence of problems with continuous use of ATA-activated technology. But there’s nothing on the use of virtual environments and participants who are in an altered state due to either mental illness or injury. Can’t prove a negative, though. However, there are problems if a person is forcibly yanked from the environment.”

Rodney took over. “Essentially, Colonel Sheppard won’t be in the environment; it should be more like an mpeg feed or maybe just listening to the radio. A step up on the tickling that Carson played with. Short time frame. Five minutes tops.”

“I appreciate that you want to do something, but is it really sensible at this time?” Elizabeth said soberly. “It’s entirely possible that the ‘tickling’ may have the required effect.”

Carson and Rodney, as a pair, slumped. The silence stretched.

Ronon tapped the tip of his foot-long knife against the table top. “Sheppard would want them to try. He wouldn’t want to be lying in that bed like a lump.”

“What he said.” Rodney pointed gleefully, knowing that the argument had been won.

~*~

 **The edge of the bridge - part five**

“Are you sure about this, Rodney?” Carson lifted his head from his pillow, taking in the array of wires connecting him to Sheppard, his own medical ECG and EEG, and the AVE stationed at the end of Sheppard’s bed, being monitored by Radek.

Lying on a matching gurney on the other side of the colonel, Rodney rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that my line?”

Snow White was festooned with his own new set of sensors and interfacing holographic technology headset -– which Carson thought looked unfetchingly like a wire tiara. How the irritant of the sticky contacts hadn’t woken up John already, Carson didn’t know. The entire medical staff -- or what seemed like it -- were arranged around the three of them, watching, monitoring and being omnipresent.

Carson dropped his head back and resisted the temptation to scratch his temple. Rodney’s one-size-fits-all headset was anything but comfortable. His gurney was close enough to touch John’s, and he felt a thread of awkwardness as he reached over and clasped John’s hand. The AVE memory tower lit up, the translucent data wedges glowing in turn until the entire deck was alight.

“Ready?” asked Rodney, even though it wasn’t really a question, more a call to arms.

A laptop rested on Rodney’s stomach. The screen lid was angled so only he could see the generated images that would result, and signal that it was time for him to enter the suite. They were defaulting to the Pirates of the Caribbean environment, presuming it worked.

“Ready.” Carson exhaled and closed his eyes. He twitched the fingers on his casted wrist around his medical scanner.

He slipped into the zone with disturbing ease.

He was on a bridge, a wooden, rickety thing that he wouldn’t trust on the best day of his life. White fluffy clouds were carried on the breeze in the chasm below. Perched, ready to fly, on a strut right next to him was a familiar black-dressed lanky form.

 _‘John?’_ Gingerly, he made a step. It rocked underfoot, a serpentine line moving ahead of him.

John turned his head, surprise written on his sharp features. “Carson?”

“Shit.” Carson grabbed the rope railing with both hands. The chasm was unbelievably bottomless; he could feel it drawing him down. “I thought that we were supposed to be _watching_ Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“What?” John dropped lightly off the strut and sauntered over, unconcerned by their precarious position.

Carson couldn’t help it; he closed his eyes and prayed for solid ground.

“What are you doing?” A nasal twang spoke right in his ear.

“I don’t like heights,” Carson meeped.

“What the hell are you doing coming on to a rope bridge, then?”

Carson cracked open an eye and glowered. “You tell me, son?”

Confused by the question, John cocked his head consideringly. “I guess… huh?” he looked around like he had only just realised that he was on the most fragile bridge that man had ever created.

“Okay.” Carson deliberately opened both eyes. “We were supposed to be in Pirates of the Caribbean. I don’t understand, this is your dream?”

To Carson, it felt much more concrete than a dream: it had a vibrancy that was tangible. The colours were bright, the sky a beguiling blue; the clouds had a whiteness only seen in angels’ wings. It was amazing -- he could feel the coarse texture of the rope beneath his clenched fingers. A breath of wind brought out a cold sweat.

John looked surprisingly well: tanned with no hospital pallor; a full head of hair and no scar. Carson managed to release one hand and latched onto John’s wrist. John accepted the groping with a raised eyebrow. There was even a pulse. Carson checked his own wrist pulse. Amazingly realistic virtual reality.

“Okay, this is nuts,” John said, monumentally understating the situation. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re telling me!” Rodney groused, materialising on the bridge beside them like he had beamed down from the Starship Enterprise, complete with golden sparkles.

“What’s going on?” John asked, he rubbed at his temple, pained.

“You, you, you…” Rodney jabbed John’s chest with a sharp finger. “You screwup. I can’t believe that you’re still hanging around on this damn bridge after all that effort I put into dragging you up off of it. I seriously damaged my shoulder. But no, you just come straight back. It doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to figure out what’s going through that stupid mop of hair. You suicidal idiot!”

Stung by the vitriol, John stepped back, heel going into mid air. Rodney latched onto him and yanked him into a full on body hug -- chest, to hips to thighs.

“Rodney!” John went rigid.

“You’re not going to die. I’m not going to let you die, you hear?” Rodney berated. “Ronon will go on a rampage. You’ll make Teyla cry.”

“Hey, hey.” John extricated a hand and managed to reach up and gingerly pat Rodney’s shoulders. “No one’s dying.”

“No, definitely not.” Still clutching John, Rodney turned his head. “Carson, any ideas?”

Knowing that he was missing some crucial elements of the discussion -- what had really happened on that bridge? -- Carson pointed to solid earth on the opposite side of the chasm.

“Land. Yes!” Rodney exulted and released John, fractionally, keeping a firm grip on his forearm. “Come on. Come on.” He began towing.

Looking like he had been slapped by a cold, wet fish, John let him.

Rodney made an exuberant jump from wood slats onto terra firma, jerking John with him. Swinging him around as if a dance partner, Rodney body-checked him away from the chasm. Thankfully, Carson made it to land, and manfully resisted the temptation to fall to his knees and kiss the soil.

Gripping John’s biceps in a two-handed grip, Rodney was shaking with anger. John rocked under his clutches.

“Look, stop it.” John twisted his forearms up between Rodney’s arms, breaking his hold. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “What the hell’s happening?”

Rodney simply came back and latched onto his black fleece, twisting his fingers in the material.

“Rodney.” Carson reached them. “You’ll hurt--”

“Shut up!” Sheppard growled, all the more powerful for the lack of volume. “What is going on? Where did you guys appear from? The _Daedalus_?”

“No, we did not beam down,” Rodney snapped. The ‘you idiot’ was unspoken but loud.

“You’re not on M9V-412,” Carson explained. “You’re in a virtual reality--”

“Environment.”

”Environment,” Carson continued.

“I don’t remember entering a pod.” John craned his head back taking in the expanse sky. “VE? Are you sure?”

The world smoothed, green verdant vegetation oozing down into beige-gold sand. Dunes rose up, engulfing trees. The chasm dried, the churning torrent below ebbing to a silver thread. Heat pressed down on them like a heavy hand on the backs of their necks.

“Huh.” John blinked slowly.

“Hardly surprising,” Rodney said waspishly. “And let’s get further way from this edge before I….” No threat was forthcoming

“John, son, you’re in a virtual reality. It’ll better if you wake up. You know, click your heels together,” Carson said earnestly.

“Yes, wake up.” Rodney untwined one twist of fingers from John’s fleece so that he could click right in front of John’s nose.

“Back off, McKay.” John wrenched free.

There was a tearing, high-pitched sound. John froze, intent. Simultaneously, a cloud of dust and sand erupted into the air behind a high dune to the left of them. Another tearing sound and then another, rhythmically. Rodney cocked his head to the side, listening. Dust hung around them.

“Rocket?” Rodney interpreted, perplexed.

A wildness touched John’s eyes. “RPG -- fuck. We’ve got to find cover.”

“What? This isn’t real.” Rodney sighed loudly. “Where’s the explosion from the grenades?”

Blasted off their feet, air forced over them with the weight of an avalanche, they smashed to the ground. Debris rained down. Carson lay on his gut, spitting out sand, ears ringing. Rodney sat up, brushing sand from his hair. He wobbled a little from side, evidently his ears were also ringing.

“Shit.” John hooked an arm under Carson’s shoulder and hauled him to his feet. “McKay, you okay?”

A mess of congealed and fresh-flowing blood stained the side of John’s head.

“Jesus.” Carson automatically reached to examine the wound.

“We can’t stay here.” John blocked his hand, twisting it around so he had a firm grip on his elbow. “McKay, we have to get out of here.”

“It’s not real!” Rodney shrieked, ducking and flinging his hands over his head at the sound of another launching grenade.

The nose of a broken-down plane, sheet metal and a torn wing, sandblown and scarred, emerged from the sand. Right before their eyes there was a dirty yellow fragment of bone, encased in a shredded green uniform sticking out from under the wing.

“Ew!” Rodney scrambled to his feet away from the dismembered arm.

“Rodney.” Carson swallowed hard. “What happens if we die in a virtual reality?”

“How am I supposed to know? I don’t know, it probably depends on how suggestive you are. Worst case scenario: death. We’ll just jump out.”

“Come on!” John propelled Carson towards Rodney.

“Death? I know that this isn’t real.” Horrified, Carson looked at John fully immersed in the environment, struggling to corral his scientists.

“Oh.” Rodney blanched.

“We can’t stay here.” John was trying to see through the high dunes threatening to swamp them. Carson felt rather than saw the emergence of a dilapidated, firebombed stone ruin on the other side of the chasm.

“Quick, there’s cover.” John pointed straight over Carson’s shoulder.

Rodney spun following his line of sight. “No! Like hell you’re going back on that bridge.”

“We don’t have time to argue, McKay.” John grabbed a handful of blue science shirt.

Rodney set his heels into the ground. “This isn’t real, you idiot.”

“John.” Carson twisted so he could face the man straight on. They were all mashed together like an insane three-partner dance. “We were never with you in Afghanistan. I’m Carson. Carson Beckett, the Head of Medical on Atlantis. We only met two years ago. The same day that you met Rodney.”

John struggled against them, jerking, trying to drag them along even as Carson tried to hold him still. Carson knew without doubt that John could easily get free with a twist and a hand lock, and he and Rodney would be both tossed aside. But John kept futilely trying to get them to move.

“We have to go. You’re not safe out in the open,” John implored.

“Listen, Colonel. I made you call up a hologram of the solar system from the Control Chair in Antarctica. Remember?” Rodney tapped at his temple. “You’re good at holograms. Remember the mist beings on M5S-224 –- you controlled their environment. You even made it good enough to fool Teyla. This is in your head!”

John’s brow furrowed. “But,” he said hollowly.

“It’s not real,” Rodney said softly. “I promise.”

John lifted his chin, listening to a world suddenly gone quiet. The heavy reek of explosives dissipated.

“I don’t remember entering a VE,” he protested, brow furrowed.

“You hit your head. You’re asleep in the infirmary,” Carson offered, heaving a sigh of relief.

John’s mouth fell open in a soundless ‘o’. Eyes wide, he stared, first at Rodney and then Carson. Inevitably, he tracked back to Rodney. His shoulders moved in a helpless shrug.

“Do you trust me?” Rodney asked.

“Well,” John fudged, shifting left and right. The presence of torn up plane and dismembered remains mocked them. He swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure. ‘Course, I do.”

“Look at me. Only me. This is a VE. You’re asleep. And now, Colonel, it’s time to wake up.” Rodney ever so carefully bopped John right between the eyes.

~*~

 **The edge of the bridge - part six**

Carson opened his eyes to the intricate architecture of the infirmary ceiling. He sat up, ripping off the EEG leads. Rodney, propped up on an elbow, was intent on a motionless John. An unspoken name hovered on his lips.

“John?” Carson checked the medical outputs streaming across monitors and notepads in one encompassing glance. Rodney protested as his gurney was drawn back so Pega could set a stethoscope to John’s chest.

“John? Colonel Sheppard?” Carson’s gaze was fixed on the quiescent face. The new image of an EEG thread of active spikes and troughs burnt into his mind. “Colonel!”

Eyelashes fluttered, hazel eyes opening a fraction. “Huh? Weird,” John mumbled, and in the next heartbeat promptly fell asleep.

“What? What?” Rodney clambered off his gurney, trailing wires, and thrust Pega out of the way. “Did he speak?”

“Aye.” Carson nodded, before he grinned with every inch of his being. “Aye, he did indeed.”

“But. But.” Rodney pointed at the EEG and the low amplitude pattern.

“It’s okay. He’s asleep. It’s perfectly fine. He’s going to be sleeping a lot over the next few days, but every time he wakes up it will be a little longer.”

Pega gave a Carson a disgruntled nod and moved back, ostensibly giving over his patient to Carson. The doctor corralled Andaman and Connell as he retreated, giving friends and family a moment.

“Colonel?” Rodney poked John hard enough in the shoulder to bruise.

John flinched and opened his eyes. He blinked furiously. “Fu-- off,” he grumbled, and lapsed right back to sleep.

“Rodney!” Carson, Teyla and Elizabeth berated simultaneously.

“What? You would have done the same thing.” He put his hands behind his back. “You would have.”

Carson took in the new arrivals -- it was hardly surprising that Elizabeth, Lorne, Ronon and Teyla had snuck in -- but there were too many people in his ICU unit. What they all needed to do now was -- breathe. Take the gift that they had been given and go away.

“Okay,” he raised a hand, getting everyone’s attention. “As you can see, John’s woken up. What he needs now is rest. So everyone who doesn’t have a role, can you please go outside.”

As one, they baulked, freezing with the merest of guilty expressions. Resolute, Carson stared until they began to slink off. At the exit Ronon turned and set a sharp glance at Rodney before slipping out.

“What?” Rodney pointed at his chest. “I have a role. Radek, too!”

The scientist, intent on the AVE, pushed his glasses up his nose and continued twiddling.

“No, you’re not going anywhere, Rodney.” Carson tugged off his holographic head set, tossed it on the mattress and rolled off his gurney. “Your machine didn’t work like it was supposed to do. I think it’s time for a couple of MRIs and a judicious look at your AVE thingy, don’t you?”

Radek nodded, but didn’t lift his head.

Rodney pulled off his own headset, leaving his hair wilder than Radek’s. “Hey, it worked. Okay, yeah. It was probably all the colonel, you know how Ancient technology loves him.”

He looked fondly down at the sleeping colonel.

 

~*~

Carson, McKay realised, had called the recovery perfectly. Sheppard would wake up for an instant, make a sleepy check of the immediate area and then fall straight back to sleep. In one distinctly unpleasant moment he had opened his eyes but there had been nobody at home. The blank, vegetative expression had not suited him. It had been worth being yelled at and banished from the infirmary for an afternoon because he had resorted to poking until the colonel had woken up properly.

On his return, Sheppard had been propped up on a mound of pillows, quietly watching the world moving around him. A slight smile graced his face at McKay’s approach.

“Hey.” He lifted a hand a fraction. “How ya doing?”

“Fine. How are you, hmm?” Rodney leaned forward.

“Fine,” Sheppard echoed sleepily. “Fine.”

“Okay, what sort of prime is 907?”

Amused, Sheppard raised an eyebrow. “It’s a happy number and an emirp. Do I pass?”

“Yes.” Satisfied, McKay sat on his chair by Sheppard’s bed. “Wanna hear some scuttlebutt about Elizabeth and Radek?”

“Yeah, sure.” But he was already closing his eyes.

~*~

Tapping rhythmically on his notepad perched on his knees, McKay scrolled through lines of code. The fact that it was part Ancient-derived and part Python 2.4.2 with a few of his own quirks and written on the fly made debugging a problem.

Absently, he glanced at the sleeping Sheppard, curled on his side, blankets pulled up around his shoulders. Everything okay there, he turned back to his coding.

His new programming relating to the viewing platform was patched into the existing virtual environment system. The actual environment was a more coherent structure, since it was based on actual Ancient technology, and when coupled with the standard default ATA recognition system (which loved Sheppard), the new viewing platform had been easily bypassed.

Sheppard snuffled, but didn’t wake. McKay returned to his model.

A single error in one line of code had resulted in Sheppard’s entry into the environment rather than simply experiencing an mpeg viewing. It was fascinating what one single glitch in a piece of code would generate.

“Next problem?” Rodney grabbed the medical sensor two-set off Sheppard’s mattress. What he didn’t understand was why Carson had reported a sense of Sheppard when first interfacing with the device. Reluctantly, Carson had given over his favourite medical scanner and sensor strip two-set for diagnostics. Plugging it into his notepad with his cobbled-together Terran- and Ancient tech-compatible cable, Rodney began the laborious analysis of the entire unit.

Sheppard hummed contentedly. McKay straightened uncomfortably from his habitual working hunch and set laptop and scanner on Sheppard’s bedside table. A sleepy smiled greeted him. Sheppard turned his head on the pillow and tucked a hand under his cheek.

“Morning,” McKay said quietly.

“Hmmm?”

“You want breakfast?”

Brow a little furrowed, Sheppard thought about it for an inordinate amount of time. He shuffled down on his pillow a little, gaze fixed on Rodney.

“Oatmeal?” McKay said, going for something easily digestible; Sheppard’s stomach had been a bit dicey. With a wrinkle of his nose, Sheppard declined.

“Toast?” McKay proposed. “There’s butter.”

Sheppard offered a vague noise of agreement.

“Finally, I’ll go get you some. Or more accurately, find a nurse.” He pushed back the wheeled table strewn with his equipment and stood. “Why isn’t there a nurse here?”

~*~

“So?”

Carson’s train of non-thought was interrupted as he watched the Lantean sunset from the perfect vantage point of the commissary balcony. Rodney plonked down beside him, tossing his medical scanner on the table.

“Is that for me?” Rodney pointed at the sealed thermal mug of coffee and cookie.

Carson nodded pushing them towards his friend.

“Oh, thank you,” Rodney mumbled sincerely, mouth already crammed.

“So, what? Why ‘so’?” Carson leaned back.

“How’s Sheppard doing really?” Rodney shifted uneasily. “He seems a bit… slow.”

Carson took care and attention with his next words. “Honestly, very well. There’s no evidence of dyspraxia or aphasia. He’s healing; it takes a little time.”

“Will he make a full recovery?” Rodney said the words like he was biting each one.

Aye, Rodney had been scared, because normally that would have been one of the first questions out of his mouth.

“Oh, yes,” Carson said with deliberate, absent casualness. Offering any statistical possibility of long-terms effect of head trauma, even though in his gut he knew that John was going to command and more importantly fly again, would set Rodney off like a hound on a rabbit’s scent. It would just take a little time to get John set to rights.

“Hmmm, good. The headaches, the migraines; if he’s got problems with his eyes that might affect his ability to fly? The Air Force is picky about things like that, even if he’s in a puddlejumper, where ninety percent of it is in his head.”

“His eyesight checked out fine, Rodney. The headaches are getting better.”

Rodney hummed under his breath.

Carson opted for changing the subject before Rodney had Sheppard diagnosed with postconcussional syndrome. It was a damn good thing that Sheppard’s team had all filled out the appropriate paperwork assigning each other their medical powers of attorney otherwise he wouldn’t be able to have half of the conversations that he did with Rodney.

“So did you find anything on the AVE or my scanner?”

“Oh,” Rodney said with an edge of grumbling. “There a conflict between the ATA coding recognition sequence and the interfacing protocol. Ninety eight point three times out of a hundred it wouldn’t have caused a problem. There was a receptivity issue -- Sheppard must have been dreaming on some level before entering the VE.”

Carson declined from commenting, even if the opportunity for some judicious teasing was enormous. Instead he picked up his scanner and turned it on. It initiated without a problem; he didn’t expect Rodney to give him a malfunctioning scanner, but he wouldn’t put it past the man to modify it.

“That’s a soft sciences problem.” Rodney pointed at the scanner. “If you did ‘sense’ the colonel, there’s nothing overt in the unit which facilitated it. You’ve postulated that the ATA gene induces a protein and enzymes which are recognised by Ancient technology. I think that we should see if there is an increase in secretion when you mentally and physically activate technology. I don’t know -- maybe you just smelled him?”

That was intriguing and worth investigating. It wasn’t a bad hypothesis to explore given that there was evidence of scent-based kin recognition in animals -– actually identifying similar genomes based on scent alone.

“And look, he lights up like a Christmas tree at the thought of another set of experiments,” Rodney crowed.

“Aye, and like you won’t be intrigued with the results? Nor able to keep your fingers out of the pie.”

Rodney shrugged unrepentantly. “I can cobble together an ATA interface and a light box. What would you need? Skin swabs?”

“Skin swabs would be one way forward. We could see if there are minute changes in lipids and salts on the skin. We’ll need to book some time on the gas chromatograph.”

“Well,” Rodney’s grin was Machiavellian, “that’s hardly a problem for the Head of Science and the Head of Medical, is it.”

~*~

Carson was focussed on the mathematics of a complex treatment protocol when Rodney stomped heavily into his office. Accepting that he wouldn’t be addressing his study in the next fifteen minutes or so, Carson hit control-save.

“He doesn’t remember,” Rodney said without preamble.

“Remember what?” Carson asked, because John had been subject to many tests of both memory and cognition over the last few days and had scored very well.

“Hitting his head. The bridge,” Rodney explained.

Carson shrugged. “It’s hardly surprising; he got a mother of a concussion. People generally don’t remember up to and after an accident. It’s a type of retrograde amnesia where he’s lost just that immediate memory. Trauma prevented its transfer to the long-term memory. I wouldn’t get concerned about it.”

“But,” Rodney announced, complete with a pointing finger of emphasis, “we were on that bridge. Therefore he does remember.”

“Aye,” Carson said slowly. He was not one hundred percent sure he understood what had exactly happened with Rodney’s cobbled-together AVE. But he had never visited M9V-412, let alone stepped on the bridge, before venturing into John’s reality, so it hadn’t come from him.

“He’s probably just avoiding the subject.” Rodney looked over his shoulder back into the infirmary and scowled.

“That he tried to commit suicide?” Carson asked softly.

“What!” Rodney spun back. “No, he didn’t. He was trying to be a martyr.”

Carson met his fervour complacently. He hadn’t thought for one moment that the colonel had tried to kill himself. But there was something that was distressing Rodney, and given that Sheppard apparently did remember the incident, and --surprise, surprise -- wasn’t talking about it, something definitely needed addressing.

“So what did happen, aside from hitting his head?”

Rodney rotated his shoulder. “We were both going over the side. I couldn’t hold him. He wanted me to drop him.”

“Oh. That’s hardly surprising, is it?”

“What?” Rodney bristled along the length of his body. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Rodney, Rodney.” Carson pushed back from his desk. “He wouldn’t have wanted you both to die. Was there any way that he could have climbed up?”

Rodney’s gaze turned inward, mapping weight, position, force and momentum. “No, he’d hit his head; he was half out of it. I had him by the collar of his vest. There was no leverage. He couldn’t move without pulling us both over.”

“So he made a decision to save you.”

“He made it in a heartbeat. He didn’t even have to think about it!” Rodney complained. “It’s not…”

Leaning over, Carson opened the desk drawer and pulled out his bottle of Caol Ila 18-year whisky and two tumblers. Rodney watched silently as he poured two drams. As Carson pushed one over, Rodney dropped into the chair opposite him.

“It’s the man that he is, Rodney. He sees you and everyone in the city as his responsibility. Can you imagine him on the bridge, screaming at you not to let him drop?”

Rodney took a hefty swig. He contemplated the half-filled glass in his hand, turning the glass so the whisky coated the insides. “So why was he still on the bridge? And then Afghanistan?”

“I dunno.” Carson looked to his own glass for answers. Why had the coma persisted? Why had the colonel been sitting on the bridge in the dreamscape? “But I guess the trauma he’s experienced weighs heavily on him. How can it not?”

“So what can I do to fix it?” Rodney knocked back the whisky and stood.

“Fix?” Carson stood himself, ready to grab Rodney if decided to do something foolish. “You work to fix it every day. Every time you come up with an insane plan or wacky device. The colonel didn’t die on the bridge. Why?”

“Ronon and Teyla reached us in time,” Rodney answered.

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘exactly’?” Rodney sniped.

“Would you have let him drop? Would you have let go?”

Rodney shook his head.

“Did he trust you in the artificial reality? Let you wake him up?”

Rodney nodded.

“Weirdly enough, Rodney, just be yourself, be the man that you are, friend, team mate, _bête noire_. Stay safe and keep him safe. And when you can’t, trust your teammates and friends to be there holding on.”

Rodney viewed him like an interesting quasar just discovered in the far arm of the Pegasus Galaxy.

“You really shouldn’t drink when you’re on duty,” he said finally, but a grace of a smile turned his crooked mouth.

“Aye, you’re welcome, Rodney. Go away and play with the colonel. I’m not releasing him from the infirmary for another week or so, and he’s getting bored.”

Carson flicked his mouse, restarting his computer. The best treatment for whatever ailed Colonel Sheppard was a dose of Rodney McKay. It was probably the strangest prescription that he had ever prescribed, but he’d bet that it was the most efficacious. He didn’t watch Rodney leave, but he knew that the man was smiling.

~*~

“Entertain me.” Sheppard waved his hand languidly. He was down to a single dressing protecting the incision on his head. It looked less rakish than the full head dressing, and more of an insult. Stubbly hair was growing around the bandage, filling in the skin above and behind his ear.

“Hangman?” McKay offered.

“No.”

“Monopoly?”

“No.”

“Chinese checkers?”

“No.” Sheppard plucked mulishly at the blanket over his lap.

“Snakes and Ladders?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a game of random chance. No skills needed. Any version of the game can be represented exactly as a Markov chain, since from any square the odds of moving to any other square are fixed and independent of any previous game history. It’s on a board where there’s snakes and ladders, you move up --”

“Oh, Chutes and Ladders. No.”

“Well what do you want to do?”

Sheppard glanced slyly at the closed door to Carson’s office, checking that he was occupied. “Hide and Seek?”

It was McKay’s turn to say emphatically, “No.”

It was a half-hearted attempt, almost as if Sheppard thought that he had to at least try, otherwise people would wonder what was wrong.

“DVD on my laptop?”

“Nah, it’ll give me a headache.” He had been plagued by migraines since he woke up.

“How about I ask Carson if we can get a wheelchair and go for a wild ride round Atlantis? Get some fresh air.”

With a twist of the mouth, Sheppard plainly contemplated the pros and cons. “It’s late. Yeah, okay.”

Late translated into few people roaming the halls, stopping and talking and staring at them.

McKay tapped his ear piece. “Carson, I’m taking the colonel out for a spin in his wheelchair. We’ll be about half an hour.”

He tapped off the comm. before Carson could answer, maintaining a sense of monkey business, despite that all he had to do was come out of his office. Switching frequencies, he called Teyla.

 _“Yes, Rodney?”_

“Is Ronon with you?”

 _“Yes?”_

“Carson’s letting me take Sheppard out for some fresh air. You want to meet us at the commissary and then head to the pier with the sea-life viewing platform?”

 _“Of course.”_ She signed off.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t forget your robe.” McKay darted off. By the time he returned, pillow-padded wheelchair in tow, Sheppard was sitting on the edge of his bed swathed in a fluffy robe. McKay manoeuvred the chair into position and set the brakes.

“Ready?” Rodney braced himself and held his forearm out parallel to the floor, ready to steady Sheppard.

Sheppard clamped on with a firm grip and stood. Shuffling to the left, he pushed on one slipper and then the other.

“One step more and then sit,” McKay instructed.

“I know.” He shuffled sideways. Unsteady, he tilted. McKay had him in an instant.

“I’ve got you.” McKay lowered him into the chair.

Sheppard met his gaze warmly. “I know.”

“Yeah.” Rodney ducked his head just a little to hide a bashful smile. “Let’s go get Conan and Xena and cause some trouble, give Elizabeth something to do.”

Sheppard hee’d his outrageous laugh and pointed to the door. “Onwards! We have windmills to tilt at.”

“Ha!”

 _the end_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Edge of the Bridge [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6780778) by [librarychick_94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarychick_94/pseuds/librarychick_94)




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